


Thorns on the Vine

by astral_plant



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Happy Ending (Eventually) I Swear, Humor, Slow-Burn Romance (With Time Skips)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23732029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astral_plant/pseuds/astral_plant
Summary: Warmth pools in the shallow space where their bodies touch. Dorothea savours the sensation. If she had stayed at Mittelfrank, she never would have gotten the chance to meet Petra, Dorothea thinks with a pleased hum. She must savour the boon in every choice she makes, lest she falter on Edelgard’s path.Dorothea through the years, on the nature of strength, living and falling in love.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault & Linhardt von Hevring, Dorothea Arnault & Manuela Casagranda, Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She needs power. Power to save herself. Power to carve out her own future. Power... What shape does power take? Dorothea thinks as tears roll down her cheeks.

Even as a humble stagehand, life at the Mittelfrank Opera Company is unlike anything Dorothea’s dared to dream of, at least not since her mother’s passing. This holds true even now, rubbed raw though her hands are from having to draw the stage curtains open and shut on cue.

As far as Dorothea is concerned, it’s entirely worth the front row tickets to every performance.

In gilded dress, Ms Casagranda glides across the stage, graceful and sublime, and when she sings, her notes ring clear and carry beautifully in the air.

The tempo shifts as she nears her lover’s side, and all around them, the lights dim as she cradles his broken body in her arms. There’s a heartbreakingly tremulous quality to her voice as it lilts into an operatic high. She laments the cruel cycle of war. She sings of loss, of a grief so great, it drags a sob out of Dorothea’s throat.

Dorothea watches from the sidelines, hidden from view and totally in awe. Dorothea watches, completely entranced, as she unsheathes her lover’s ceremonial dagger and brings it, swift and glinting, down to her heart.

* * *

The people of Enbarr call her the Miracle Songstress. Dorothea doubts there's a soul alive who would disagree, if the standing ovation come curtain call is any indication. Dorothea beams at the deafening sound of applause. To be a part of such a grand spectacle, even a small part, feels extraordinary.

When the red velvet curtains draw firmly shut for the night, Ms Casagranda approaches her backstage with a smile on her face.

“Oh, it's always so exhilarating to perform,” Ms Casagranda says as she takes the handkerchief Dorothea offers her. “Keep your eyes wide open, Dorothea. One day, it’ll be your turn up on that stage.”

Dorothea nods attentively, though her smile is a little unsteady. Ms Casagranda has been nothing short of a wonderful benefactor, but it’s honestly still a little daunting to be in her presence.

“Thank you, my dear.” She smiles as she hands back the handkerchief. Her jubilance wanes though, when she spies the state of Dorothea’s hands. “Oh my. Do stop by my dressing room. I have a salve that will do the trick for those nasty rope burns.”

“It’s alright, Ms Casagranda,” Dorothea says demurely, with all the decorum cultivated from a childhood spent serving imperial nobles. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“I daresay it’s no trouble at all! And how many times have I told you to call me Manuela? Ms Casagranda is what people call my mother. Well, Dr. Casagranda, but you get the idea. Plus,” her voice drops to a playful stage whisper as she hooks an arm around Dorothea’s. “You can fill me in on how you're adjusting to life here. And I can share tips on how to survive your apprenticeship. Ooh! I remember back in my day…”

Dorothea acquiesces with a laugh and a shy smile, and together, they make polite conversation en route to Ms Casa—she catches herself mid-thought—Manuela’s dressing room. At the end of their short walk, Dorothea’s surprised to see an immaculately-dressed gentleman with a bouquet of flowers in hand and an expectant look upon his face. _How odd_ , Dorothea thinks. Fanfare’s commonplace, but not for shows that end so late into the night.

“For you, my lady.”

He's wearing a wide smile as he hands Manuela his bouquet of red carnations, but there's a sinister air to his presence. When he nears them, Dorothea recoils on instinct. Wriggling out of Manuela’s hold, she ducks behind her instead, and feels very much like a child again, hiding behind her mother’s voluminous skirts.

He’s a nobleman, not a cutthroat. That much is obvious, but all Dorothea can focus on is the knife-edge of his crooked smile.

Noblemen wear civility like a thin veneer. It’s a lesson she’s learned the hard way, all her life. It's in their stance and their tone. It’s in something no manner of finery can mask. Dorothea knows his type well, not just because she’s lived as an urchin on the streets of Enbarr, but because she once called one such man her father. They ply, and they use, and they discard. That’s the common thread tying them all together.

“Your performance tonight was simply spellbinding.” Completely unperturbed by Dorothea’s actions, he bends low to press a courtly kiss to Manuela’s knuckles. “I should hope to have a bit of your time!”

“Oh, you’re too kind. Thank you for the flowers, but I’m afraid I’m rather tired tonight,” Manuela says, stifling a yawn against the back of her free hand.

“Nonsense! You can find the time to entertainment me for a bit,” he says, tightening his grip on her.

Dorothea's frown deepens. She looks to Manuela for cues on what to do. If she were on her own, she’d bite and kick and run, but she’s a guest here. One wrong move and she could get booted out of the opera troupe and left once more to fend for herself.

“I’m afraid I have to insist,” Ms Casagranda says, and for a brief moment, her eyes flash gold. She twists free of his grasp in a flurry of motion. Grabbing two of his fingers, she bends them unnaturally back. “Beauty sleep is of utmost import, you see.”

He flinches in pain and steps back quickly to pull himself free. Cradling his twitching hand, he shouts.

“You witch! What did you do to me? I will not be made a fool of!"

He brandishes his bouquet like a club, his spittle flying through the air as he rages.

“Oh? If you’d like another demonstration, I’ll gladly indulge a fan.”

He raises his bouquet in anger, primed to strike, but at the sight of crackling electricity, he turns tail and bolts instead, back into the dark hallway from whence he came.

The flowers lie bruised and forgotten on the polished wooden floor. Dorothea makes doubly sure he's gone for good before she bends to gingerly pick the bunch up by their stems. Rubbing a red petal between forefinger and thumb, she grimaces at his empty gesture.

“Whew!” Manuela lets out a sigh and lays a hand on her hip. When she turns to Dorothea, she’s wearing a commiserating smile. “What a night, huh?”

* * *

"Oh... it has to be here somewhere," Manuela says, trailing off.

Perched on a wooden stool, Dorothea silently watches Manuela rifle through the messy expanse of her belongings. To see the strongest person she's ever known laugh nervously as she tries to discretely conceal a nigh-empty bottle of wine is comforting in its own strange way, Dorothea thinks with a slight smile. 

Dorothea decides to cut her some slack by letting her attention rove across the room, to framed portraitures of Manuela, resplendent in costume. On Manuela's desk, manuscripts and sheet music lie pinned beneath little bronze statues of animals. Perched preciously near the edge is a half-finished miniature of a ship in a bottle of fine white sand. Dorothea peeks quickly at Manuela before she relocates the bottle to a safer spot, near thick volumes of books about medicine. Upon closer inspection, she sees love letters protrude from some of its pages.

Dorothea doesn't pry any further than that, though she allows herself to admire the fragrant, wafting scent of perfume...

 _What a life she's led,_ Dorothea thinks, and can't help the mirror sting of both admiration and melancholy when she thinks about how Enbarr's all she's ever known of the world.

At last, Dorothea's gaze lands on a modest porcelain vase housing the flowers from earlier. There was no sense in letting it go to waste, she supposes. Still, she can't help but grimace at it now. She didn't know what she had been expecting her new life at the opera house to be like. She had thought... she had thought that everything was going to change, that in some inexplicable way, the world would rearrange itself as recompense for all her suffering.

She grips her forearm tightly, bites her lip. Tonight's encounter was the first cruel reminder, she supposes, of reality. 

The truth was that... the world remained much the same as ever. People were people. At night, the darkness of the opera house mirrored that of the streets of the capital, and beyond the everyday kindness and strength of individuals like Manuela, were those seeking to exploit and abuse...

She stares down now at her hands, still tender and raw from a long day of hard work. _If the world won't change, what must?_ Dorothea thinks, grimacing.

She doesn't know how long she spends, lost in her thoughts, but eventually, Manuela returns to Dorothea’s side with a small, silver tin she had fished out from under a pile of colourful shawls.

“There. All yours, my dear,” she says with a wink as she drops it into Dorothea’s palms.

“Thank you.” Gripping the tin tightly, she looks up at Manuela. “How… did you do that earlier, Ms Manuela?”

“Well, he did have very thin wrists... Oh! Magic, you mean? Well… I had a short stint at the Royal School of Sorcery, but really, everyone can do magic." She clucks her tongue and rests her palm on her hip. "Not everyone has the aptitude to really pursue it though, I should say. Hmm… shall I teach you how?”

Dorothea thinks back to all the terrifying nights spent alone with only the stars for company, and all the times she’s had to bolt for fear of her life, and nods without an ounce of hesitation.

From the window, a draft whistles through, rowdy and obstructive as they sit, facing each other on the dusty floor.

She hadn't paid it much notice before, but the the chill she feels now makes it much harder to ignore. Someone had forgotten to close the shutters for the night, it seems. Dorothea hopes it hadn’t been her. She shudders now at the warped sound.

On their wicks, the flames flicker, but hold strong.

Cast in the light, Manuela’s shadow looms tall and imposing against the opposite wall, but her eyes are kind as ever.

“Think of magic like power,” Manuela says patiently as she uncurls Dorothea’s trembling fist. “Power given physical form. So… you know, a kind of energy. It’s a bit like projecting your voice up on stage. Remember the diaphragm exercises I showed you how to do?”

“Mhm.”

Dorothea watches in fascination as sparks dance in Manuela’s hand. When Manuela brings their palms closer, Dorothea flinches. It’s like a thousand little ants, nibbling at her skin. She’s had nightmares like this… ones where they consume her.

“Well, magic is a little like that—hard at the start, but the more you practice, the better you’ll be at controlling it, and the more powerful you’ll get, too. Okay?” Manuela smiles reassuringly at her young protege. “Don’t be afraid. I want you to close your eyes now. Block out everything else and just focus on your palm.”

Dorothea does as she’s told, or tries to at least. It’s a little hard with the wind, but for now she’s preoccupied by this strange, tingling sensation. All the fingers in her right hand are twitching, and she’s not sure, but the digits might be a little numb now, too.

“Focus on that feeling. That power. That energy. Focus and try to push back. Not with your hand, but with your mind. What does power look like? It’s all around us. The wind rustling the trees at night, the fire burning low in the heath. It rends the earth like a bolt of lightning. It arcs out into the world like the branches of a tree. Can you feel it, Dorothea? I need you to picture it in your mind.”

Slowly, Dorothea feels the rest of the world ebb away. Manuela is gone. The opera house is gone. In the dark stillness of her mind, she is alone but for the maddening, bloodletting dance of electricity in her hand.

 _Power_.

What is the shape of power?

Her brain itches and throbs. She tries to picture it, but sees only a sea of black.

How much time has passed in this strange, untouched space? Her hand is starting to cramp from the strain.

 _Ugh_ , it’s no use. No trees will grow, not here in this forsaken place. The earth has been ravaged. The fields salted. Nothing will grow here. She feels like a false god, unable to coax life out of the primordial ooze.

What if she’s stuck in this fresh hell, forever forced to wander? Dorothea trembles at the thought, seized by fear, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. She collapses to her knees, claws the black earth with her nails. Is this how it ends? No. No! It can’t be… not after everything she’s been through.

She refuses to die. Not here, not now. But what can she do?

She’s a raging tempest of emotion. Helpless to the pull, Dorothea clenches her hands into fists and screams in pain and fury.

She screams for all she’s worth, and suddenly, rain thunders down from the sky, pelting the earth in black sheets.

Lightning strikes the earth, and beneath Dorothea’s feet, the ground rumbles. It’s raining the day her father casts her and her mother out onto the streets.

Lightning strikes the earth. Her mother is dead, taken by a cough that rattles her lungs, filling it slowly with water. Her mother is gone and nowhere will be home ever again.

Lightning strikes the earth and Dorothea thinks of dying on the streets of Enbarr like a rat in the gutter. She’s just clawed and fought and bit her way out of the clutches of a sleazy nobleman.

Her future is mired in muck.

Perhaps one day, her body will be fodder for insects and carrion. For now she runs, as fast and as far away as her scrawny legs and empty stomach will take her. Dorothea’s sick of it all—the fear, the hunger, the helplessness. She needs to get away. Anywhere will do. She can’t stand the weight of this life.

Cobblestone scrapes her knees and palms as she collapses to the ground. She calls out to the heavens, pleads with any god who will hear her. When no one answers, she screams and curses and butchers the hymn her mother would sing to soothe her whenever she cried. What use is praying, really, when the goddess will not hear the pleas of those most in need?

She needs power.

Power to save herself.

Power to carve out her own future.

 _Power_...

 _What shape does power take?_ Dorothea thinks as tears roll down her cheeks.

Lightning cleaves the dark in two, and she can’t feel the rain.

She looks up and sees a woman standing over her, a green umbrella in hand. Her skirt is long. Her hair is short. And she smiles as she holds out her hand.

Dorothea’s brain is pounding and every nerve in her body has been set aflame. Is she having a conniption right now? Is she having a stroke? There is a feeling, coursing through Dorothea’s veins like liquid heat.

Dorothea screams as it tears its way out of her body.

She gulps air hungrily, and when she opens her eyes again, she’s on her knees, still gasping for breath. Her head is throbbing, as is her hand, as is her heart. Dorothea’s vision blurs. She blinks to find tears staining the polished wooden floor, and charred wood where her right hand is pressed.

“My dear, I think you are a natural at this,” Manuela says, ever proud as she lays a hand on her shoulder. “Just as well. It does a rose good to have some thorns.”

Manuela clucks her tongue, smiles proudly as she regards her.

“To think—” Manuela teases after Dorothea has gathered strength enough to stand up again—“a songstress, a mage, and a hedgehog to boot. Talk about a triple-threat.”

“Hm?”

Dorothea takes one look at her own reflection in the vanity mirror, at her choppy brown hair standing on end, and joins Manuela in giddy laughter.

Dorothea’s hands will shake for hours yet. Red marks run along the length of her arm, tracing the path of her veins. Those will linger for a week. Dorothea’s still a child when she learns the shape of power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was def channeling Power by Naomi Alderman, and that bit when Edelgard says: when people reach out for each other, there's no need for gods!
> 
> Edited this because I got so excited about writing, I was blind to all the typos.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She takes their brief time apart to regain her composure. That is to say, she speeds through limericks in her head like she’s getting the jitters preparing to get up on stage as opposed to having a normal conversation with her dearest friend in the world.
> 
> “Petra… Praise me too much and you'll spoil me.”
> 
> “Spoil… you?” Petra asks haltingly as she trails after her.

Dorothea pushes damp strands of brown hair away from her forehead before trudging onward.

How long has it been since she last washed her hair? Dorothea clucks her tongue in disdain. It'll be longer yet before she gets the chance. It's a long, miserable march back to Garreg Mach from Fódlan's Throat, and before any respite, they must brave winding trails shrouded by dense forest.

A twig snaps underfoot. At the tail end of their spindly convoy, Dorothea scoffs as she sidesteps a puddle. Ugh. It might’ve been rain or—and she suspects this far more likely—horse piss from one of the many cavaliers up ahead.

How lovely.

Why had she even come to Garreg Mach to begin with? Dorothea thinks with a deprecating sigh. It feels like a lifetime ago, but barely a year back, Petra had posed a similar question as they sat under a gazebo one balmy afternoon.

Dorothea had answered her candidly then, fingers still sticky with powdered sugar as ginger tea steeped in the air between them. Her plan had been to marry rich. She was searching for love, and hoping to secure a future for herself. She remembers the attentive look on Petra’s face as she listened, curious and non-judgemental, seeking only to understand…

It’s a fond memory that Dorothea holds close and visits often. Why is that, out of the myriad of memories she’s made over the years? …Maybe it’s because so much had changed since that sun-dappled afternoon. Dorothea lets out another sigh, this time longingly. What she wouldn't do for a steaming cup of tea right about now.

Since then, she’s turned Petra’s question over in her head many a time. Like an object in her hands, she’s come to scrutinise her big plan's many flaws. How small-minded it seemed in the grand scheme of things when weighed against Edie’s flame-wreathed path of revolution, and Petra’s lofty aspirations for Brigid.

In contrast, Dorothea would’ve settled for a small, serene piece of the world to call home.

Hers was a modest ambition, one she could still achieve, even now. It’s as simple as paying to board a merchant convoy and crossing over to Almyra. She could start afresh. Edie would understand. She had given them all the chance to walk away, after all.

 _Why didn't I leave then?_ Dorothea thinks as she plucks an errant, wilting leaf from out her hair. _Why haven’t I left yet?_ She heaves a heavy sigh. It feels like sighing is all she does, these days. Well, to put it simply, the answer is this: the reason she stays is the same reason she’d left the gilded cage of Mittelfrank to begin with.

For the longest time, despite all the hardship she’d been through—maybe even because of it—she believed there had to be more to life than just surviving. The world is vast and so full of promise. There had to be something out there worth living and dying for.

It played centerstage in all the great operas she performed, after all. Grand tales of conquest and love, triumph and tragedy. How remiss it would've been to spend her whole life performing the stories of other people without first seeking out her own.

So Dorothea left, in search of something real, to gamble on a future not set in stone.

Her recent conversation with Hubert had both shaken and fascinated her. So maybe she hasn’t quite found that spark yet—that wholehearted devotion to a cause. Here and now at least, with the motley band of misfit nobles she has come to call her friends, she’s found something like kinship. So she stays, and she walks Edie’s bloodied path, though not with Hubert’s same fervour.

To be fair, how can she, with dark times upon them, and darker times still on the horizon? The professor was lost, and they were on their own now…

None of them believe she's really dead. None of them wished to believe that, no. But in her absence, they had no choice but to act as such. And though Dorothea's dedication to Edelgard’s cause is without question, privately, she still harbours small doubts about their ability to win a two-fronted war with both the Alliance and the Kingdom…

Dorothea's jostled from her musings by a rustling from the thick foliage. Honed by war and battle, her body tenses on instinct. A spell crackles with power in her hand as she braces for an ambush. Dorothea stills her breathing, steels her heart, as a figure emerges from the underbrush and…

Oh!

It’s Petra, grinning triumphantly as their eyes meet. Dorothea sighs in relief and lowers her hand. She’d been loud on purpose it seems, probably so as not to spook the others at her approach. Dorothea knows that if she wants to, Petra can fell a whole patrol, with them none the wiser.

“Petra, thank goodness! I almost thought we were being ambushed.”

“It is good to have readiness, but there is no need for worry,” Petra says with a reassuring smile as she falls into stride by Dorothea's side. “We are safe from here to the nearest town.”

“The nearest… Wait, that’s near Gloucester territory. You scouted that far ahead?” Dorothea’s eyebrows arch in surprise. “Goodness. You didn't need to come all the way back here.”

“It is no trouble. I wanted to be walking with you,” Petra says, eyes bright and smile warm, completely self-assured in her decision.

Affection wells up in Dorothea's chest. She bites her bottom lip, though her lips still curl into a smile. Warm, and safe, and wanted—that’s how Petra always makes her feel… 

“Is that so? Well, count me honoured to be in your esteemed company, my dear princess!” Dorothea gushes as she sidles up to hook an arm around Petra’s.

Petra laughs, and together they walk arm-in-arm. “Dorothea, stop! Please do not call me princess,” Petra chides, though there’s no bite to her words. “You are making me blush.”

Dorothea chances a glance at her face, and true enough, Petra’s head dips shyly away to downplay the pink of her cheeks. It's adorable, Dorothea thinks, and can't help but smile again. 

“Sorry,” Dorothea chuckles, self-reproachful and a little apologetic. “Old habits die hard.”

They chat companionably as they continue their trek. Petra shares with her a handful of wild Albinean berries she had managed to forage as she recounts the rest of her hunting spoils. The fruits are appetisingly tart and sweet, though not as piquant as the company, Dorothea thinks with a pleased little hum as she listens.

On the way back from scouting, Petra had managed to nab two gold-plumed mountain pheasants and a hare. She’d reported in to Edelgard before dropping her spoils off with Ashe. She speaks excitably now of their upcoming meal. Supposedly, Ashe was going to make a special kind of potluck stew.

Dorothea hums agreeably at various intervals, grateful for her positivity. Buoyed by warmth and affection, her worries for the future fade away. Forget about vulneraries. If only it was possible to bottle up and sell the way Petra makes her feel. Why, someone would make a killing!

“Wait,” Dorothea says as she turns to grin at her. “Hold on. You shot two birds with an arrow?”

“Yes. Are you impressed?” Petra nods enthusiastically and gives her an expectant smile. Dorothea can feel the lean muscle of Petra’s bicep tense just so as she straightens her posture. That, coupled with her cheery expression… Oh wow… there’s no way Dorothea’s complaining about this turn of events.

“In Brigid we have a phrase—you cannot shoot two birds with one arrow. I told that to Edelgard when she was worrying about me and Brigid.”

“So you were making a joke. Oh, the lengths you go.” It’s endearing how earnestly Petra strives in all that she does. Dorothea chuckles and makes a mental note to consider using more props should she perform on stage again. “Well, joke or no, I'm impressed! This is the first I've heard of someone managing to shoot two birds with one arrow.”

“Yes, it took great effort to make this joke.” Petra grins sweetly, spurred by Dorothea's affirmation. It's not long though, before Petra's expression grows pensive.

“But also, I wanted to explain. Edelgard said she is prepared to shoot many birds with one arrow, but there is already much on her shoulders. I want her not to worry, about my future, and Brigid’s." Petra's lips purse into a thin line as she pauses briefly to weigh her words. "I wanted to show that I can be an arrow too, like her. An arrow that can shoot many birds. A leader that can carry the burdens of her people and shape a better future.”

“Wow… You and Edie are on a whole different level, huh?”

Dorothea bites the inside of her cheek. It's a heady mix churning her stomach. It’s both admirable and a little heartbreaking, how wholeheartedly Petra and Edelgard dedicate themselves to their cause.

How old were they when they decided to put their ambition above all else?

Dorothea cups the side of her face with her palm, a soothing gesture she picked up long ago, from her mother. Soon, her smile goes wry as her thoughts. “Sometimes I feel like a weed in a garden of roses. Like I can't hope to ever compare.”

Suddenly, Petra stops dead in her tracks. Dorothea, blinks, stunned by her actions. She doesn't at all understand the anguish she sees when she looks into Petra's clear brown eyes.

“Do not be thinking such things. You are impressive too, Dorothea!” Petra proclaims determinedly as she clasps both her hands. When Petra looks beseechingly at her, Dorothea feels like she's baring up all her heart. “You have many talents. In magic and singing and dancing. You are hardworking and thoughtful. And unrestrained when you give. My heart is always full when I am thinking of you.”

Affection washes over Dorothea in a heady rush. The way Petra is looking at her right now with such genuine care and worry… Good heavens! Dorothea blinks to escape the magnetism of Petra’s ardent gaze.

It’s a little too late for that. Already, Dorothea feels blood rushing to her face. She can hear her heart hammering in her ears like a drum. Flustered and caught totally off guard, it's all Dorothea can do to chuckle sheepishly to try to diffuse the tension.

“Oh, stop.” Dorothea pulls away from Petra’s hold to step ahead, and away.

She takes their brief time apart to regain her composure. That is to say, she speeds through limericks in her head like she’s getting the jitters preparing to get up on stage as opposed to having a normal conversation with her dearest friend in the world.

“Petra… Praise me too much and you'll spoil me." 

“Spoil… you?” Petra asks haltingly as she trails after her.

“Yes,” Dorothea says a little breathlessly after her brain's regained enough sense to form another coherent sentence. Petra’s words were very touching, but also ten different sorts of overwhelming. Petra’s caught her so off-guard that Dorothea might just cry. Right here. Right now. In broad daylight, to boot!

She fights that urge. Manuela’s taught her well. In record time, she manages to calm her nerves. When next she speaks, she manages to fall back on a playful quip without missing another beat.

“Spoil me too much and nobody else will be able to measure up. Whatever will I do, then?”

“I see.” Petra’s troubled expression gives way to understanding. When she takes Dorothea’s hand in her own, she’s wearing a purposeful look. “Then I will continue to spoil you.”

“Petra!”

 _My goodness!_ Dorothea thinks, a deep blush rushing to her face at Petra’s brazen declaration. So much for her composure. It takes all that she has not to fan herself on the spot. The stage was one thing. Interacting with Petra Mcneary is a whole different class of exhilaration and nerves.

Still, with her reputation in mind, it’s a little embarrassing how easily Petra can fluster her. It’s even more so the case when as far as she knows, Petra isn't even trying to flirt!

“If your teasing is revenge for earlier...!”

“…Revenge?” Dorothea might be imagining it, but she swears the grin Petra’s wearing is an impish one. Taking Dorothea's outburst as a cue, she interlaces their hands. “Maybe so. I will be an arrow that can shoot many birds.”

There's just something in the way that Petra looks by her side. It's in the way her brown eyes catch the sunlight flitting through the canopy of green. It's in the conscientious way she helps Dorothea step over a fallen tree. It's in everything Petra does. It's in who Petra is.

Dorothea can't help the way her heart leaps, can't help but give in to the urge to smile back whenever their eyes meet. Cheekiness aside, Petra's earnest determination is commendable. She's a dear friend first and foremost, but Dorothea looks at the young woman walking beside her and also sees the regal makings of a wonderful Queen.

She has to bite her tongue to quell the greater tide of foolish impulses. The world is so much bigger than the hearts of two people, and with the storm of war hot on their heels, their most pressing concern for now, is shelter.

Hands still interlaced, they pick up the pace to catch up to the rest of the convoy.

Dorothea’s head is still in a flurry when they make camp for the night.

Petra will be the death of her one day, she swears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to this super self-indulgent fic! :> Every chapter, I crank up the heat. Expect more flirting, more pining, wartime angst and romance, and some off-key humor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warmth pools in the shallow space where their bodies touch. Dorothea savours the sensation. If she had stayed at Mittelfrank, she never would have gotten the chance to meet Petra, Dorothea thinks with a pleased hum. She must savour the boon in every choice she makes, lest she falter on Edelgard’s path.

Dorothea’s jostled awake by the creaking ship and Caspar’s loud, bellowing snores.

Charred flesh. Spilled blood. Grief. The dream’s sunk its talons deep. She makes to wipe the cold sweat from her face, and when she touches her cheeks, she finds them wet with tears.

 _She’s alive_ , Dorothea reminds herself with a shiver. _We’re all still alive._ And it’s true, though on that dark day, it was a close call.

Lightning in her hands and nightmares running amok in her head... She had come to Garreg Mach to gamble on a future not set in stone. And now it feels like she’s paying the devil’s share in spilled blood, just for the chance to see tomorrow. She’d be lying if she said she never thinks about what life would’ve been like had she remained at Mittelfrank. 

Dorothea makes short work of her tears with the long sleeves of her sleeping tunic. It takes a few minutes of focused breathing to calm down, but she does. When she stretches her cramping legs, she winds up accidentally kicking Linhardt.

“Watch it,” he grouses as he readjusts the blanket covering his head and torso. A soft, white glow peeks through the thin, coarse fabric, and from it, she can make out the outline of a book in his hands.

“Sorry,” Dorothea replies, recomposing herself after a sharp inhale. Shifting to a more comfortable position, she pops the crick in her neck. “You're still up, Lin? Doze off in battle tomorrow, and the professor will have your head.”

“Better her than the Church,” he says flippantly and turns a page.

“Oh, har-har.” Dorothea tugs the blanket off him so he can appreciate the full blunt of her glare. Her action doesn’t serve its intended effect in the least.

“Eh. Save the effort.” Linhardt shrugs, not the least bit fazed as his magic spills light all around them. “Dawn will come soon enough.”

Her glare deflates with a sigh. Geez, trust Linhardt to use advanced light magic to covertly read a book. She redirects her gaze to the shadows dancing against the galley walls.

They’re packed tight with the soldiers under their command, rocked this way and that by the waves. No doubt that chartering an imperial vessel would've boosted their comfort in spades, but discretion’s of great import, especially on a mission as sensitive as this.

She rests her head back down and draws her thin blanket back up. Sans the seasickness, it’s almost like their time back at Garreg Mach. Bernadetta’s to the left of her, curled up around a stuffed bear, and Petra’s sleeping soundly on her right. Dorothea reaches out with her hand, searching blindly for the comforting presence of her warmth, and to her great surprise, all she finds is empty space.

Dorothea rises abruptly from her makeshift bedding with a concerned frown.

“Lin!” Dorothea hisses as she insistently shakes his shoulders. “Petra isn't in bed. We haven't reached Brigid yet. What if something—”

“Don't look so scared,” Linhardt interrupts her, stifling a yawn. “She's… stop shaking… me. She said she wanted some fresh air, earlier. She’s probably still above deck. And Shamir’s out on patrol, anyway.”

“Oh, thank goodness!” Dorothea heaves a sigh of relief as she lets go of him. “I’ll go check up on her.“

"Do what you must." 

"Alright, that settles it," Dorothea says simply and swipes the book from out his hand before passing him back his blanket instead.

“What—Hey!" 

She pays Linhardt's feeble protest no mind as she slots the book under Caspar's sleeping body. “Now get some sleep, you.”

"Ugh… You’re starting to sound like Edelgard,” he grouses helplessly as he watches her walk away. “Or my mother. None of which are flattering, I might add.”

“We nag because we care,” Dorothea says with a wink, and is rewarded with a blanket he warps over her head.

“Yeah, yeah… It’s chilly out. You’re welcome, by the way.”

* * *

Linhardt was right about the weather. Dorothea shivers as she steps out on deck, her bare skin breaking out in gooseflesh. There’s salt in the air, and the cold sting of the wind whips her hair and sleepwear about as she draws the blanket tighter about herself.

Dorothea walks with one hand outstretched and ready to brace herself should she fall. Her sea legs haven’t quite grown in yet, but she’s faring better than Caspar at least, who’d stuffed himself during dinner only to retch it out and over the side of the ship.

…If only her maiden voyage was under better circumstances. Still, she makes do, one faltering footstep after the next across wooden planks, out towards the bow of the ship, where stands a lone figure.

The wind is strong, but there’s not a cloud in the sky, and the moon tonight, it’s out in full.

Bathed in its light, Petra stands tall and regal as she faces the pitch black horizon. Dorothea drinks in the shape of her as she approaches, the scars on her bare skin, the lean musculature of her back. They've come a long way since their academy days, and fate permit, they have a long way yet ahead of them.

The ship crests a large wave, and one wrong footstep is all it takes for Dorothea to stumble forward. She yelps girlishly as the world goes off-kilter. Thankfully though, by then she’s close enough to rouse Petra’s attention.

“Dorothea!” Petra exclaims in surprise as her hands reach out to steady her. It all happens so fast. She looks up just in time to catch the worry on Petra’s face ebb away, replaced by a smile. “Are you okay?”

Dorothea giggles as Petra attentively fusses over her. She smoothes the creases in Dorothea’s tunic and readjusts the blanket about her shoulders before stepping back to stare intently at her. Petra’s eyes trail the path of her hands as if to make doubly sure that Dorothea’s alright.

Her action coaxes a smile out of Dorothea. The wind still howls inhospitably about them, but in Petra’s company, Dorothea feels safe, and warm and entirely at ease.

“I’m fine, thanks to you,” Dorothea says, and means every word from the bottom of her heart.

“I am glad.” Petra says with a wide grin. “What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t there when I woke up, and Lin said you’d be here, so I came by to…” Dorothea hooks a strand of brown hair behind her ear as her gaze drops to the wooden planks beneath their feet. ”To check on you.”

She has no reason at all to feel foolish, but all of a sudden she does. Has she overreacted by coming here? Dorothea worries as she second-guesses herself.

As if sensing her unease, Petra takes her hand and gently coaxes Dorothea to meet her gaze. When Dorothea’s eyes stray back up to Petra’s face, she sees her lips quirking shyly as she inclines her head in a slight nod.

“You have my gratitude, and also my apologies. I did not mean to give you worry. I am well.”

She certainly looks well. Standing in the light of the moon, Petra looks like a million gold pieces. She has no doubt about Petra’s ability to take care of herself, but the dregs of her dream still lingers, and unlike all her other nightmares, what happened to Petra then—it was real.

It was fear then, that paralysed Dorothea. It’s concern now, that spurs her to action.

“I… I suppose you’re right. But it’s freezing though. Share my blanket at least. I insist!” Dorothea says, and before Petra can even reply, Dorothea steps forward to drape the cloth lengthwise about both their shoulders.

Petra’s soft, gregarious laughter is eclipsed by the sound of the wind, but what little of it Dorothea manages to catch is as sweet as music to her ears.

“Thank you, Dorothea. You are very kind,” Petra says. Holding one end of the blanket, she leans against Dorothea’s shoulder.

“Oh, think nothing of it!” Dorothea declares, immeasurably pleased.

“You are dear to me," Petra says, in a matter-of-fact tone one uses to describe an irrefutable fact about the world. "I am thinking that is impossible.”

“Petra…” Dorothea chuckles as heat creeps up her neck. Goodness… When did Petra become such a sweet talker? 

Warmth pools in the shallow space where their bodies touch. Dorothea savours the sensation. If she had stayed at Mittelfrank, she never would have gotten the chance to meet Petra, Dorothea thinks with a pleased hum. She must savour the boon in every choice she makes, lest she falter on Edelgard’s path.

Following Petra’s gaze, her eyes seek out the distant shores of Brigid. It’s still a ways off. She thinks she can make out its shape in the distance, but maybe that's just a trick of her mind. Dorothea bites the inside of her cheek. She knows why they’re here, and what they must do when they reach land. She’s known Petra for years now, but still, Dorothea can’t fathom what it must be like. With enemies at their door, and another war brewing on the horizon, Dorothea doubts it feels much like a homecoming.

Her heart pangs at the thought. She reaches gingerly for Petra’s hand to get her attention.

“If… you’re having trouble sleeping, maybe a lullaby will help.”

“No, Dorothea.” Petra’s answer is firm, but her voice is gentle. “It is fine. Your thinking is what matters.”

Dorothea looks searchingly at Petra and sees only warmth shining in her brown eyes. When Petra smiles at her, the mark on her cheek stretches just a little bit. Ohh… It’s fetching in a way Dorothea would rather not dwell on right now.

“You are here with me. That is enough,” Petra says as she clasps Dorothea’s hand more firmly in her own. When she breaks her charged stare, it's to look back to the black of the open sea. “It feels strange. Brigid is… near, but feels so far away. I wanted to see it for myself. My land of home.”

She sees longing writ plain on Petra’s face. Dorothea draws a sharp inhale. Her heart feels heavy in a way she doesn’t know what to do with. It’s not hard to imagine Petra as Queen. It's hard though, to imagine life without her.

 _I dreamt about you,_ Dorothea longs to say, though she does not. _When I almost lost you that day, I was so scared I didn’t know what to do._ She keeps these thoughts close to her heart. She keeps them under lock and key, trapped in the brittle cage of her ribs.

There's a spot near Petra's heart where a poison-tipped blade had once pierced deep. An inch in any other direction and she would have been lost to them, forever. The mere thought of it now fills Dorothea with such a sense of grief—she must blink in order not to cry.

She swallows these thoughts down, as if it was rising bile. Between them, there’s no room for selfishness, at least not now. Dorothea schools her heart into a mask of calm before she speaks. Manuela’s taught her well, when to set her emotions aside. On bleak days, it feels like she’s never left the operatic stage at all.

“I guess that makes sense,” Dorothea says with a sheepish chuckle. “You're the crown princess, after all. And one day you’ll be queen.”

Dorothea wears a wistful smile as she runs her thumb across Petra’s knuckles, and tries to commit to memory the feeling of her hand in hers. Petra’s dear to her. Above all else, she wants her to be happy. If that means she has to say goodbye eventually, then so be it, Dorothea thinks, her decisiveness outweighing her despair…

Petra nods firmly.

“Yes. One day I will be ascending the throne. But there is much confusion in my heart.” Petra’s eyebrows pinch together in consideration. “Brigid is my home, but half my life has been in Fódlan. I have learnt much here and have people I care about. Fódlan is also my home.”

Petra looks up at her then and beams, her smile lighting up her whole face.

“Oh Petra!” Dorothea laughs, positively enraptured. Petra’s always so earnest in her emotions and beliefs. A minute ago, she was on the verge of tears, and now... goodness! She can't reign in her affection. Giggling, Dorothea throws her arms around her in a bear hug. “Is this a confession? I accept! On behalf of all Fódlan.”

“I… Yes, I am confessing.” Petra tucks her chin over Dorothea’s shoulder as her arms curl around her back. Her warm palms splay against the thin shift of Dorothea’s tunic.

“I believe in Edelgard,” she says, completely resolute, and Dorothea tries to contain her shiver at Petra’s breath ghosting against the side of her neck. ”We will win this war together. And after, Brigid and Fódlan will be as equals. Dorothea, when that day comes, I want us to be standing side by side.”

“Yeah?” Dorothea laughs, giddy and buoyed by the feeling of budding warmth in her chest. “What a wonderful dream. I'd like that. I’d like that a lot.”

Come morning, they must fight the Church and spill more blood on Brigid soil. Come morning, they will reunite the people of Brigid with their princess and give them a new hope for the future. For now they sit, shoulders and arms brushing as they breathe in the salt lick of the sea. Sharing warmth under the blanket, they watch the stars shining up above. Resting her head against Dorothea’s collar, Petra regales her with stories about the constellations.

She speaks of them now as her late father once had. She tells Dorothea about Ursa, the great mother bear, and traces the shape of Orion with her hand. They call him the first hunter, and in the dark of the night, it is he who they look to for guidance.

Petra speaks reverently of the spirits of the forest, and the wind and the sea. In Brigid, there is a special prayer said whenever one departs and returns to its shores. Petra teaches it to her, and they recite it together as they watch dawn breaking gently upon the horizon.

A thin strip of light rises in the distance, and before long, the Brigid archipelago is awash in gold.

Petra’s safe. She’s real, and alive and well, a warm, solid shape pressed to Dorothea’s side.

 _Just give me this moment,_ Dorothea thinks as she bites her lip. _I won’t ask for anything more._


End file.
